Wislawa Szymborska

Still

In sealed box cars travel Names across the land, And how far they will travel so, And will they ever get out, Don’t ask, I won’t say, I don’t know. The name Nathan strikes

Some Like Poetry

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink On ordinary paper: they were given no food, They all died of hunger. “All. How many? It’s a big meadow. How much grass For each one?” Write: I

Tortures

Nothing has changed. The body is susceptible to pain, It must eat and breathe air and sleep, It has thin skin and blood right underneath, An adequate stock of teeth and nails, Its bones

Pi

The admirable number pi: Three point one four one. All the following digits are also just a start, Five nine two because it never ends. It can’t be grasped, six five three five, at

A Large Number

Four billion people on this earth, But my imagination is the way it’s always been: Bad with large numbers. It is still moved by particularity. It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam,

Going Home

He came home. Said nothing. It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong. He lay down fully dressed. Pulled the blanket over his head. Tucked up his knees. He’s nearly forty, but not